Seeking Utopia
by la chiede il tuo cor
Summary: The diary of one Julien Enjolras, starting at age eight. Baby Enjolras; oh dear God...
1. 1

I am currently experiencing the opposite of writer's block; diarrhea of the pen. Or keyboard. Or something.

Anyways. This fic will work in this way: it's excerpts from Enjolras' diary or journal or whatever you will. So every chapter will be from a different year in his life. This is the month of April from hiseighth year.

And... He's eight now. Thanks all for that!

April 6th, 1814

Today, I am eight years old. Maman gave me a notebook as a present and I am writing in it now. Maman says that I can write anything I want and no one will ever read it. I think Fleur might read it, except Fleur doesn't know how to read yet, so this notebook is safe for now.

April 7th

I thought it was odd that I've known how to read ever since I was three, but Fleur is five and hasn't even started learning. Maman said it is because she is a girl. I don't know why that was a good answer, but I guess Maman thought it was enough. I asked when Fleur was going to learn, and Maman didn't know, she said.

April 8th

I think maybe I can teach Fleur to read. But then this notebook won't be so safe, and I'll have to hide it.

But Fleur should still learn to read. Otherwise, it wouldn't be fair because that would mean boys are better than girls just because they are boys, and that's not true!

April 9th

I've got to learn my multiplication. I don't like it so much because Papa says I've got to memorize all of them. Memorize means remember, like how I memorized the letters.

But I don't like memorizing multiplication because it's just learning facts, but I don't know what it means.

Seven sevens are forty-nine.

It's not like adding, because addition is like counting, and I can prove things are true by myself, like five plus five. I can count it on my fingers, and I can prove it's true. Multiplication means accepting something to be true just because Papa says it's true.

Fleur says that she wants me to teach her to read.

But we decided to keep it a secret.

April 13th

Teaching Fleur is harder than I thought it would be, but it's still fun.

Maman showed me that you really can prove multiplication, like how three threes are nine. She cut a loaf of bread into three pieces, and cut each piece into three pieces, and then there were nine pieces of bread.

We had four pieces with dinner, and there were five pieces left.

But that's subtraction.

April 14th

Papa sent me to the estate (I guess that means "house") next door with a letter to deliver. I gave the letter to the lady who opened the door. She let me come in and she gave me some cake. Another boy that lived in that estate came in to eat cake with me.

He asked me what my name is, and when I told him, he said, "Well met, Julien." It was a funny feeling right then, because he sounded very old, and he's only nine, a year older than me.

He said that his name is Henri Combeferre.

When I left to go home, a girl stopped me between the two houses. She was very dirty, and she wanted me to give her some bread.

I asked why her parents couldn't give her bread, and why she was dirty.

She said that her parents didn't have any money to buy bread, and that her family lives under a bridge.

I gave her the other five pieces of bread.

Papa found out and he was angry, but I don't know why.

April 16th

There is a funny book in our library. I don't know any of the words in it, and they sounded odd when I tried to sound them out.

Maman said I didn't know any of the words in it because it's in Latin, not French. But she says the same book is also written in French, and I can read it when I'm older.

The book has a nice name, though. It's called "Utopia." That's a pretty word. I want to read it as soon as I can.

I'm allowed to go see Henri today, Maman said. I'll go after I give Fleur her lesson.

Papa said the girl I saw before, the dirty one, was called a "gamine."

And Maman says that Utopia is a place.

I wonder if there are gamines in Utopia.

April 18th

Fleur's reading is going well. She can read and write the whole alphabet now, and sometimes her name, but sometimes she forgets how.

Henri has an eight-year-old sister, and she doesn't know how to read either, because she's a girl. But some girls learn to read, Henri said, and she's going to, when she's older.

Maybe Henri and I should teach her and Fleur at the same time.

Henri can already multiply big numbers by big numbers. But his sister can't. Maybe I should teach Fleur arithmetic, too.

April 19th

Henri's family's library has Utopia in French. We decided that we're going to read it together. But it's hard. We have to look a lot of words up in the dictionary.

I saw another gamine today, but Papa caught me sneaking bread outside, and guessed what I was doing. He was angry again, but I don't understand what's wrong with helping people. I know that I'm supposed to believe what Papa tells me, but maybe Papa's wrong this time.

April 22nd

I've been spending most of my time either learning more math- I can multiply any two-digit number by any one-digit number- or reading Utopia with Henri. That's a bit boring sometimes because we spend more time looking up words we don't know than actually reading. But that's all right because now we know more words. I said "endeavor" yesterday when I was talking to Papa, and he looked very shocked.

Fleur and Henri's sister, Noelle, came to watch us and learn new words with us. Henri and I took turns reading everything that we've read so far from Utopia out loud. We're almost half-way through. We explained all the words they didn't know, and it was good because that meant we'd not forgotten any of the new words we'd learned from the book.

Then Fleur taught Noelle the alphabet, and Henri showed me how to multiply two-digit numbers together.

April 23rd

I wish Utopia were a real place. Henri, Fleur, Noelle and I pretended today that we lived in Utopia. Henri brought the book over today, and we all played and read in my bedroom. The dictionary my family has is bigger than the one Henri's family has, so it was hard to carry it upstairs from the library. So I decided to keep it in my bedroom.

April 26th

We finished reading Utopia. There wouldn't be gamines in Utopia. Why are there gamines here, then? Why doesn't our government do something to help them?

I asked Papa, and he said that I'm much too young to think about politics.

Maybe Fleur should ask him. But not only is she younger, she's a girl. If I can't ask, surely she can't.

Equality. It's a nice word, but here, it's no more than a dream.


	2. 2

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! Yes, I've taken your advice, and in the last chapter he was eight. Making him nine in this one.

August 19, 1815

Yesterday, Henri and I went into the forest by mistake. Of course, instead of fixing our mistake and leaving, we decided to go in a little bit further.

But we went in a lot further, and we got lost. So we didn't eat for a really long time. It was early this afternoon when we found our way out, and we went in yesterday morning. We were _very_ hungry.

Then I thought about the gamins. Maman tells me that I think too much about them and that no good will ever come of it, but I can't help it. I can't imagine being in so much pain again, with my head spinning and stomach aching, and my arms and legs not moving right because I'm so hungry.

But some people have to live like that all the time.

I said something about that to Fleur where Papa could hear me. And Papa said "you will find, Julien, that such people are not people at all."

I have now been sent to my room where I have to stay until tomorrow morning with no dinner for my answer: "You're right. Some people are not people, Papa. You are one of them."

Papa says that "this ought to teach me a lesson for my impertinence." Well, Papa. This has taught me a lesson, and that lesson is that you are not always right.

But I'm still hungry.

August 20

It's close to noon, and I've still not been let out of my room. Maman says that I can't come out until I apologize to Papa and admit that I was wrong and never mention the gamins again.

I might apologize to Papa, but I wasn't wrong, and I can't not mention the gamins.

I can't eat until I leave my room.

Maybe I'll die up here.

August 21

Maman let me out last night. I was very tired because I was hungry, but I was so hungry that I couldn't sleep. She did something very odd, though. On the way down the stairs, she whispered in my ear. "I'm very sorry, dear Julien, that that had to happen to you. Given my way, I would never have allowed it."

When we stepped into the kitchen, Papa struck me across the face without saying anything, and then went up the other staircase. Then Maman gave me some food and I went to bed.

It is morning now, and my face still hurts.

I think I'll go see Henri. Maybe his family would let me live with them. I would like that better.

August 24

For school, I am to read a book by a man named Rousseau. I don't understand everything that he says, but I really like it, in a strange way. It reminds me a little of Utopia, but it's very different.

I like this man's ideas. I told Maman so, and she left the room, muttering to herself about a man named Robespierre and rolling heads.

I have no idea what that means, so I'll just let it be for now.

August 25

Papa came into the library today when I was reading Rousseau. He asked me how much I'd read, and I showed him- I'm about a third of the way done. Then, without saying anything, he grabbed the book from me and threw it in the fire.

It upset me a lot. I wanted to cry, but I didn't because I knew that Papa might enjoy it.

I mentioned it to Henri, and his eyes got really big. Then he said that burning books is very uncivilized, and I told him that I agree.

No one that's a real person would ever burn a book.

August 29

Henri's sister, Noelle, turned ten years old today. We were planning a picnic for her so that all four of us could celebrate, but instead Noelle had to go inside and put on some fancy clothes that made her look older than she really is. We weren't allowed to see her.

Henri looks sad.

August 30

We went back to try to have the picnic today, but Noelle isn't allowed to go on picnics anymore. I bet she feels lonely.

We went inside to see her. She was in the parlor, stitching something. It said, "One by one, your dreams may come true."

It was sad because I think that Noelle's dreams weren't to sit inside all day and stay out of the sun and sew, but it's what she has to do.

August 31

I'm very angry at Papa. Papa thinks that if one is in a position of power, they can never be wrong. He says that even "to suggest a thing is sacrilegious."

I asked him if an authority is allowed to make a mistake.

He said that that "is inconsequential, for the authorities do not make mistakes."

I understood right then that he didn't mean authorities. He meant him, as the head of the house, and burning my Rousseau. So I asked him if anything was different if the authorities don't make a mistake, but do the wrong thing because of the wrong reason. He asked me what I mean, and I gave him an example: What if the government was overlooking the poor and not allowing people to have rights that we should all have as human beings just because they want more money?

Papa's face went slack, and I am, again, stuck in my room.

I'm hungry again.


	3. 3

Much as I hate to sound like a review whore (which I am), I must express my, er, dissatisfaction in the fact that only two people reviewed my last chapter… Anyways. Much love to both of them. By the way, in case anybody was wondering, I sent chapter 7 of The Spoken out to be betaed, so that should be up soon.

As for the writing in this one. Even I think that E! sounds way too old to be ten (which he is in this chapter) but this time, I actually had a reference; I "19th centurized" my own writings from when I was twelve and thirteen (I decided that a prodigy- which is how I see Enjolras, Eponine –well, sort of, and Combeferre, in case you were wondering- would write about two or three years above his peers) and used them as the models. He might still be too old, but by ten, I think that it's plausible that a prodigy-ish person would write like this, so…

June 15, 1816

Oh, honestly! If Papa could stop for a second and actually think about what he's doing, the world would be a better place. I am a little scared by the changes I see in Maman. She spends her day tiptoeing around the house, being his little slave. Afraid that he'll beat her if she gets on his bad side. I don't even know if she realizes what's happening, but Fleur and I do. She's being crushed in Papa's iron fist; that's what's happening.

Well. I'm not entirely sure that Fleur notices, but she says that she does. I know for a fact that at age seven I did not understand the concept of misogyny. Though, as Fleur is a woman, perhaps she'd understand things of that sort- feminism, you know- better than I, being a man. A boy, really. But you know what I mean.

I seem to be conversing with a notebook. How odd.

June 17

I really must hide this notebook better. Papa came into my room this morning, and while lecturing me on something- I'm not sure what as I wasn't listening, really; I never do, as he no longer says anything of importance- he picked this notebook up and started absently turning it over in his hands. It was all that I could do to school my face into an expression of nonchalance, as to avoid his suspicion.

I'm not afraid of what he would do to me, should he read what I've written in the last couple of years; rather, what he would do to Fleur. She is the apple of his eye, so to speak, and I would hate for her to suffer by my hand, though indirectly.

June 19

Henri and I hid in the garden today and listened to our fathers speaking. They are good friends, I suppose, as Henri and I are, though they never address each other on a first name basis.

They were talking about us; about Henri and I, which is why we were eavesdropping.

My father said that I am too precocious for my own good, and that I'm headed for trouble. How odd; I don't think I've ever heard him say that before. Or maybe I have. Once, or twice. Or every day. He hopes that Henri, who is far more subdued than I, will "positively influence" me.

Henri's father, however, delights in the fact that Henri and I think for ourselves and concern ourselves with current events.

Papa went on grumbling then, and Henri's father quickly changed the subject.

Henri and I found the way that they seem to be brothers and yet still address each other by their surnames only amusing.

So now I'm going to call him Combeferre, and he will call me Enjolras.

June 20

I feel for Maman. She is becoming no more than an empty shell. Her mind is emptying, and I feel helpless to stop it.

It is, indeed, Papa's fault, yet I must question whether Maman herself is not partially to blame. Yes, Papa has kept her oppressed, but he has treated me far worse than she, and I have still retained my intellect and individualism. My freedom, if you will.

Combeferre and I walked through the fields surrounding our estates, and I expressed my concerns to him. While it seems that his parents are far more open-minded than mine, Noelle's well-being is still greatly distressing to him; she is being schooled in the fine art of homemaking, and the finer art of containing one's self and suppressing any independent thoughts one might have.

And to think; this is what is deemed appropriate for a lady.

Ladies are not to think. And it seems that I am not to think either; Papa simply wants to instill his skewed vision of "virtue" in me and have me regurgitate said virtue as my own thoughts.

It will not happen, but I am now even more afraid for Fleur. She is already falling into the trap that Papa has laid. I wonder now if it is too late to rescue her.

The most frightening part of all of this is that I am now beginning to draw a line between the females of "high class society" and the poor of the country.

You see, the female populace are, in all honesty, no more than slaves. They cook for their families, bear their husband's children, look elegant, and hold their tongues. They are not permitted a voice.

The poor generally work for, say, seventeen hours of the day. They do hard manual labor for barely enough to stay alive. They, too, are schooled into servitude. They are slaves, slaves of society. Some are forced into prostitution while others are driven to beg and steal. As such, they have no voice.

Over the women watch the men of the house.

Over the poor watches the government.

June 23

Who _cares_ about damned algebra? There are children dying for lack of food. My mother is dying as well. No, not in body, but in her mind. She is dying, and my sister is next. The masses are in chains. And here I sit, trying to discover the meaning of _x_.

I abhor the situation.

Not to mention that I am horrid in mathematics. That, however, is inconsequential…

It should be obvious by now that I am a prodigious linguist; I have read and continue to read any and everything that I can lay my hands on and I absorb everything. It irks me, then, that I am still forced to work from my primer.

My schooling is quickly becoming pointless.

Perhaps I should take charge of my own education by reading in Combeferre's library. I have already read anything of interest here- at least what has not been burned. I do not doubt that Combeferre's family does not censor what their son reads; it certainly shows in conversation with him.

Regardless, I must admit that I have much to learn in the field of mathematics; things that I can learn from what Papa and Maman have to teach me.

Though that doesn't make finding the value of a letter any less worthless or irritating. But I digress…


End file.
